


A Treatise of Fruit Trees

by White Queen Writes (fhartz91)



Series: Ineffable Valentine's [7]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Don't copy to another site, Established Relationship, Fluff, Idiots in Love, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), Ineffable Valentines 2020 (Good Omens), Jealous Crowley (Good Omens), M/M, Misunderstandings, Post-Canon, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-28
Updated: 2020-02-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:47:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22931221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fhartz91/pseuds/White%20Queen%20Writes
Summary: Aziraphale tries his hand at getting Crowley an expensive present, but ends up with a sour, jealous Crowley instead.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Ineffable Valentine's [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1625005
Comments: 20
Kudos: 288
Collections: Ineffable Valentines 2020





	A Treatise of Fruit Trees

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Ineffable Valentine's prompt 'grand gesture'.

“Thank you so much for the scrumptious lunch.” _And for keeping me out over an hour_ , Aziraphale scowls, but mainly at himself. He could have excused himself a dozen times, but it’s hard to justify burning bridges when you may need to cross them again later. “It was quite unnecessary though.”

“What? It’s not every day a valued customer sends me on such an intriguing assignment. I wanted to thank you properly,” Aziraphale’s cohort says, too smoothly to be construed as simply a friendly response.

“You were more than qualified for the job.” Aziraphale puts on a slight burst of speed, staying one step ahead of the man in black who seems determined to accompany him to his door. He wishes he would have let him walk back to his bookshop alone from the restaurant. His presence unnerves him.

Plus, it would give Aziraphale less explaining to do.

Aziraphale can already feel him, hunkered down in the bookshop, seething on the sofa nearly five hours earlier than expected.

Since it’s a straight shot from the restaurant to his bookshop, Aziraphale has no luck shaking the man. The two of them get to his doorstep together, and Aziraphale sighs the long, exasperated sigh of a doomed man.

“Yes, well, I’d best get back to work,” he says, trying his best to politely blow his companion off. “Busy day ahead of me.”

“Is that so?”

“That’s so,” he answers and waits for goodbye, but the man looks at him expectantly. _What in the world does he want?_ Aziraphale screams in his head. Aziraphale doesn’t have another job for him, and he’s already paid him for this one, including interest.

It doesn’t hit him fully until the man leans closer, hazel eyes locked on Aziraphale’s flustered face, the question _“Aren’t you going to invite me in?”_ unspoken but etched in the lines of his grin because he can’t say it out loud, can he. Not him. Not in his profession. It’s not the sort of thing he’d want people to know about so he definitely doesn’t advertise.

But if it’s offered to him, who is he to turn it down?

They stand in close proximity on Aziraphale’s doorstep - Aziraphale with his hand on the knob, gauging the right time to turn it and duck in; the man lingering on the edge of kissing distance, waiting for the invitation he’s certain is moments away from coming.

When it doesn’t, when the pause between them goes on for so incredibly long that they’re starting to attract attention, the man backs away, frowning with more disappointment than anger.

“That wasn’t easy to come by,” he says, motioning to the cloth wrapped package clutched firmly but carefully in Aziraphale’s hand. “I hope whoever gets it … I hope it’s appreciated.”

There’s something veiled in that statement, but Aziraphale doesn’t dig deeper in search of it. He smiles, as warmly and genuinely as he can under the circumstances.

“As do I, my good man. As do I.”

He sends a hint of blessing his way, to soothe the sting of rejection and mend fences between them.

Again because Aziraphale may need his help fetching another difficult item in the future.

The man tips his hat. He turns on his heel, glaring at any passersby who dare shoot a glance his way, then walks off, blending with the crowd. Aziraphale deflates against his door. He doesn’t particularly like dealing with hired men. He avoids it when he can. The majority of the stuff he requires, even the gray area items, he can usually acquire through legal means.

This one, however - a book of particularly desirable provenance - was taking too long, and Aziraphale had lost patience.

But now that that’s done with, he doesn’t go into his bookshop right away. He’s dealt with one aggressive and domineering gentleman.

He has one more to suss out before he can call it a day.

He can’t linger on the doorstep forever. Someone might notice him there, wonder if he’s opening up shop.

Might want to come in and browse his shelves for something to buy.

He’d rather fend off a gloomy Crowley than a customer any day of the week.

He forgoes his key and unlocks his door with a turn of the doorknob. He’s greeted by thin streaming light from the afternoon sun blocked by heavy drapes; the musty smell of old books combined with a touch of magicked mildew, meant to keep the odd lookie-loos away; and one dreary demon, sulking on the sofa in the corner.

“Good date, angel?” he growls right as Aziraphale gets a look at him. And even though Crowley is staring him down like a predator, Aziraphale can’t help noticing how exquisitely handsome he looks. He’s gone all out, dressed to the nines - black suit, top hat, leather gloves, cane. On the table beside him stands a bottle of champagne, a bouquet of roses wrapped in thick pink paper and tied with a satin ribbon, and a large, gold box of chocolates.

Truffles. Aziraphale’s favorites.

They’re all Aziraphale’s favorites.

Especially the demon.

“Crowley! What a surprise!” Aziraphale counters brightly, trying to save the day. “I didn’t see you there.”

“Obviously. Didn’t see me here, didn’t return my calls, haven’t been in your bookshop for over an hour. If I remember correctly, you and I had a dinner date planned for tonight.”

“We still do. But you are tremendously early, my dear.”

“ _Don’t call me that,_ ” Crowley grumbles.

“For Heaven’s sake, why not?”

“Wha---why no--- _why not_!?” Crowley launches to his feet, tossing his hat and glasses aside so that Aziraphale won’t mistake his anger for anything less. “You’re stepping out on me and you’re asking me why not!?”

“I’m not stepping out on you. I did not go out on a date. I was having a meeting with an associate. It just so happened to take place over lunch.”

“On _Valentine’s Day?_ ”

“Yes. It’s also a Friday, you know. A perfectly respectable work day for many people in the world.”

“Don’t get cute with me.”

Aziraphale smirks even though he knows that will more than likely set him adrift in dangerous territory. “Then how shall I get, my dear? Tell me.”

“Apologetic might be nice.”

“Of course.” Aziraphale boldly walks up to his sour-faced demon and clears his throat. “Crowley … I’m sorry. Truly, _truly_ sorry.”

Crowley tilts his nose up, sniffs contentiously. “That’s bet---”

“I’m sorry you saw me bidding adieu to an associate and decided to jump to outlandish conclusions without hearing my side of the story.”

“What’s the point!?” Crowley snaps, tossing frustrated hands in the air. “How do I know you’re not going to lie?”

Aziraphale’s brow furrows in offense. “I wouldn’t lie! I’m an _angel!_ ”

“In my experience, angels lie plenty. That includes _you_.”

“Preposterous. When have I lied?”

“You … you …” Crowley sputters, his face growing redder with each syllable “… you downright lied to the Almighty!”

“I mean _recently_. Besides, I may have bent the truth a tiny bit over one little thing …”

“It was about your bloody _flaming sword_!”

“Which didn’t turn out to be all that important in the long run. Heaven got it back.”

“B---but … but … She’s the Almighty!”

“Semantics don’t necessarily help your argument, dear. Speaking of, here.” Aziraphale thrusts the cloth-covered package into Crowley’s hands before he can continue his argument. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

Crowley looks the package over suspiciously, which annoys Aziraphale to no end. If he’d simply unwrap it, he’d see what it is. It’s not even fastened shut in any way! “What’s this?”

“What does it look like? It’s a _present_. I would have wrapped it in paper like a civilized person, but you’re not giving me a moment’s peace.”

Crowley finds a loose edge and slowly unwraps the object from its cloth. When he reaches the worn cover (not the original - this book doesn’t have a cover, comes from an era where it wasn’t deemed worthy of one), he stops, breath hitched between sigh and sentiment.

“ _A Treatise of Fruit Trees_?” he reads off the first page.

“A-ha,” Aziraphale says, stifling a grin. “It took quite a bit of finagling to track down and get, but yes.”

“But … that must have taken ages.”

“It did.”

Crowley turns the pages with a single finger lest they crumble under his touch. “And you wasted all that time, went through all that trouble for this boring ass book?”

“Yes, well, you wrote that _boring ass book_. Under the name Thomas Hitt, which I never understood.”

“It was an inside joke,” Crowley murmurs. “But it sold. Over a decade ago. For around four million, if I remember correctly,” he says, rather smugly. “Did you … buy it back?”

“Not exactly.”

“That man …” Crowley gasps, which sounds comical since Crowley isn’t normally prone to gasping “… he stole it!?”

“Of course, he stole it! It was in a museum. In a _vault._ It couldn’t even be examined by someone with the credentials to do so, and believe me, I tried.”

Crowley stares at him, mouth agape, a mixture of surprise, and possibly _pride_ , lifting the corners of his lips. Aziraphale sees it grow wider and rolls his eyes.

“Come now. It wasn’t _that_ big a deal. You act like I don’t dabble in the diabolical from time to time. You’re usually the one performing the grand gestures, hunting down the expensive presents. I wanted to try my hand at it for once.”

“But, angel,” Crowley says when his voice comes back to him, “I don’t …”

“I know, I know …” Aziraphale waves his discomfort away with his hand “… you don’t want expensive presents from me. You’ve said it before. You can buy me all the fancy gadgets you deem necessary, but I get you one little book …”

Crowley shakes his head over the remark about _one little book_. “That wasn’t what I was going to say.”

“Then what were you going to say?”

“I was going to say …” Crowley sets the book down on the plushest of the sofa cushions, then takes a rigid Aziraphale in his arms “… that with everything I’ve done wrong, I have no idea what I did right to deserve you.”

“I dare say you don’t,” Aziraphale says, melting in his demon’s embrace with the cheekiest of grins. “But I love you all the same.”


End file.
